The tower that topples

You’re there again, in your dreams, floating thousands of feet above the surface and staring down at your bedroom. Only it’s not your bedroom; it’s the room of someone else, a you that dreams of safety and comfort, a you that isn’t you, anymore. You watch this bedroom that’s yours but isn’t crumble and crack, folding in on itself before toppling over. You watch the you that isn’t you cry, crumpled and creased like a piece of paper, shaking ever so lightly. You watch this figure fade, blown away like ash in the breeze, a bitter aroma reaching your nose even from here.

The tower rebuilds itself, stone and glass floating back into place like rain falling in reverse, gentle yet with a conviction that could drown even the tallest mountains. The words come back to you then, you can taste them in the back of your throat, it reminds you of bile.

“I expected better from you. Take it apart and put it back together again, make it better.” The words leave your lips before you can even process them, and suddenly you’re down there, watching your bedroom teeter and fall, a tower of security and home broken to millions of pieces. You falter, tears on your face as you curl around yourself and shake, a version of you that isn’t you watching from above.

Author's Note

Inspired by this image: http://8bitfiction.com/post/164225643040